away their time on the down of plenty; nor will any wise man easily presume to say, “Had I been in Savage's condition, I should have lived or written better than Savage.” ’
If we try to picture Johnson in his most characteristic attitude we usually see him sitting on that throne of human felicity, a chair in a tavern, and roaring down opposition. It was thus that Boswell knew him best, and though the same record exhibits him in many other aspects, yet the predominant impression persists. So Johnson has come to be regarded as a kind of Chairman to humanity, whose business it is to cry ‘Order, Order,’ an embodiment of corporate tradition and the settled wisdom of the ages.
Yet we may think of him, if we like, in a less public fashion, as a man full of impulse and whim, quaint in humour, passionate in feeling, warm in imagination, and, above all, original. You can never predict what Johnson will say when his opinion is challenged. Doubtless he loved paradox and argument, but he was no dialectician, and behind the play of talk his fancies and tastes were intensely individual. He disliked all talk that dealt with historical facts, especially the facts of Roman history. He never, while he lived, desired to hear of the Punic War. Others besides Johnson have been distressed and fatigued by talk that is merely an exercise of memory. But his method of escape was all his own. When Mrs. Thrale asked his opinion of the conversational powers of Charles James Fox, ‘He talked to me at club one day,’ said Johnson, ‘concerning Catiline’s conspiracy—so I withdrew my attention, and thought about Tom Thumb.’
Johnson is famous for his good sense and sound
